


hold me close

by portraitoftheartist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stress Baking, Stress Eating, stress/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24899671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitoftheartist/pseuds/portraitoftheartist
Summary: Stress comes after Crowley.Aziraphale is there to comfort him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	hold me close

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhh can you tell I was so stressed about my future today and needed some cuddles from loml (but thanks to corona I can’t even have that ahaha)  
> Anyway the summary says it’s all.
> 
> I originally planned the stress factor of Crowley being a health inspection Crowley’s plant shop needs to pass but he is afraid he will fail and won’t be allowed ever to start a shop like that. 
> 
> But I decided not to add this afterwards so yeah...

Aziraphale finds himself waking up to silent crunches one night. The spot next to him is empty, again. Yet his minds doesn’t assume the worst case scenario this time.

It has been a while since Crowley’s little surprise so he is not as worried of his safety but he is worried none the less.

So he dangles his legs from the bed, sitting and trying to get out of the dream realm back to the dark interior of his room.

He glances at the clock on his night stand. The digital red blinks ‘3am’ at him.

It is awfully early to be up, and quite off for Crowley to do so.

He hopes there were not any nightmares involved.

His eyes start to adjust to the darkness and only then he slowly gets up.

Still off thrown for being up at an unusual hour, he takes his steps carefully, maintaining his balance as much as he can, holding onto the walls once in a while for support.

Following the noises like a guide, he walks inside the house until he reaches the living room.

Only a tiny lamp lit, the light illuminating from his living room is low and yellow.

Few steps back and a bad eye sight and you might think you’re entering a prehistoric cave.

He can see some items scattered around the room, few things, what he assumes to be packages from the way they shine, surrounding the lonesome figure sitting in the center.

His back turned to the door, Aziraphale can see his hand searching for something.

A bottle

Amongst the crunching noises, Aziraphale hears it, a silent sob.

Almost sounds like choking up.

He starts to worry.

Crowley doesn’t notice him.

He reaches for something in front of him then, the noises changing a bit but they’re all the same: Chewing and biting and eating and shallowing.

Aziraphale realizes what going on and calls out to him. “Dear, are you alright?”

No response.

“Crowley, what is going on?”

At the mention of his name, Crowley slowly starts to turn from where he is sitting, to face Aziraphale. His eyes are completely yellow, save for the two black slits cutting through.

He doesn’t even have it in him to maintain his humanly eyes.

Is he really feeling that bad?

Never breaking eye contact, Crowley reaches for a bag this time.

Eating chips after chips, faster than he blinks. Regular sized ones in one bite, if bigger they go in two bites. He doesn’t even take a breath to fully chew one, he keeps sending them one after another without a pause.

Aziraphale tilts his head a bit to see the writing on the package.

Extra salty Potato Chips.

If he keeps this up, he will suffer from dehydration, Aziraphale is sure of it.

He takes a step and as if on cue, Crowley’s hand goes away from the bag.

Towards the bottle.

At least he is self aware of his thirst. It’s a small consolation but still something.

After drinking whatever is inside the bottle, he reaches for a plate.

A plate full of cookies, Aziraphale is certain, is not from his kitchen.

He must’ve baked them himself.

All that eating and baking leads to one thing in Aziraphale’s mind:

Stress.

He tries starting a conversation again but words die in his throat before they can even reach his lips.

So he does the second best thing.

He waits for Crowley to drop whatever it is he is eating, to finishing chewing and swallowing.

Once the ideal conditions are met, Aziraphale launches himself onto Crowley.

Wrapping his arms tight, resting his head against his chest, he waits.

He can feel Crowley’s hands on his now, a weak touch and a little shaky.

It’s his form that starts to lose composure next and before he knows it, Crowley is crying.

Aziraphale places his hand on his head and slowly cradles him, petting his head, fingers combing through his hair. Soothing him, making small murmurs of nothing particular, humming a song they like and resting his cheek on top of his head.

“I-“

“It’s just-“

“They-“

“I mean-“

Every word Crowley starts is interrupted with a sob. Some of them almost sound like choking, so Aziraphale reaches for the bottle next to them.

He smells beforehand and takes a sip to make sure that it’s not alcohol. (It’s just milk, gone warm.)

Handing the bottle to Crowley and waiting for him to drink, his hand never leaves his hair, making small movements once in a while, massaging his scalp.

Crowley opens his mouth again.

Aziraphale acts before him.

“No need dear. We can talk about it tomorrow if you like. But for now, please stay by my side and cry if you still need to.”

Yellow eyes staring at his, as if he is the most exceptional being to ever step on earth, Crowley nods and buries his head back into the comforting warmth of Aziraphale’s chest.

His hold on him is a little stronger now, breathing even.

They stay like this for a longer until they fall asleep.


End file.
